


Music of the Night

by whooves



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, But with a happy ending, F/M, Phantom!Nine and Christine!Rose, where they're phantom of the opera characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whooves/pseuds/whooves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Tyler hums to herself, a soft lilting melody. Her golden ringlet curls drape artfully around her face, the result of hours of hair and makeup before the show. Her dressing room is quiet, with only a few flickering candles to keep her company. She tucks her dressing gown around herself, lace and silk carefully framing her slender arms and pale décolletage.</p>
<p>She sang for him tonight, as it was he who generously created a role for her. He’d taken the lead soprano, Reinette, out of the picture, just so Rose could sing. She had gotten a standing ovation from the crowd, which had been magnificent. But it was only the praise of one who really mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jess (professortennant) as usual.

Rose Tyler hums to herself, a soft lilting melody. Her golden ringlet curls drape artfully around her face, the result of hours of hair and makeup before the show. Her dressing room is quiet, with only a few flickering candles to keep her company. She tucks her dressing gown around herself, lace and silk carefully framing her slender arms and pale décolletage.

She sang for him tonight, as it was he who generously created a role for her. He’d taken the lead soprano, Reinette, out of the picture, just so Rose could sing. She had gotten a standing ovation from the crowd, which had been magnificent. But it was only the praise of one who really mattered.

She picks up the blood red rose on her dressing table and fingers the stem lightly, skating over the thorns. There’s a single black ribbon threaded around it in a bow. Her teacher, her tutor, her angel. It is he, who she wishes to please. It is his applause she craves, and his appearance she hopes for. Though she’s never seen him before, she yearns to and hopes she has done well enough tonight to make him proud.

When the candles in her dressing room suddenly flicker and die, her heartbeat steadily increases to a rapid staccato. She hears the slide of glass on runners, and is paralyzed to her seat. _Ask and ye shall receive, Rose._ For the life of her, she cannot make her arms or legs move. She is spellbound by the fog and golden light which seem to emanate from her mirror. She sees an outstretched hand, gloved in white. She blinks slowly, hands folded demurely in her lap.

Somehow, Rose finds her legs and manages to stand. When she takes the hand, he whispers in her ear.

“Run.” So they do, her lagging behind, clutching to his hand. His cape drifts behind him, and her ballet slippers pad softly down the cool stone corridor.

The Opera house is riddled with secret passageways. Rose and the other chorus girls used to go looking for them, until their ballet mistress had found them and told them off for wandering around dark damp halls.

As they run, he whispers things to her. His voice dances around her ears, telling her everything and nothing. They reach a boat, and he motions for her to get in. He holds her hand as she steps in carefully, and then he gets in after her. He is stable and solid, well-built and broad-shouldered under his dark attire.

As he begins to propel the gondola, she looks up at him, straight up and down. He is dressed impeccably in black trousers and a collared shirt, vest, and cravat. A cape is draped over his shoulders. He looks rather dashing, if she’s being honest, and her jaw is gaping at him in wonder. But his face is obscured halfway by a black leather mask. What she can see of his face is lovely, with a strong jaw, and the glint of gorgeous blue eyes. His hair is dark, and short, and carefully frames prominent ears.

It is in her nature to be inquisitive, but she finds words fail her as they sail through the labyrinth beneath the opera. The water is an inky black from shadows thrown all around, the only lights are several torches. But they are reaching a clearing, and through the way, as a giant gate opens, she can see a soft, flickering cavern. He is silent as he pushes the boat to a rocky shore.

“Rose,” his voice is soft but musical. He rises up and steps out of the boat, extending her his hand to help her to her feet. She steps out onto the rock, the cold seeping into her feet. He takes her hands as if it is his right, his hand warm and solid in his, even through thin white gloves.

“Who are you?” she whispers, moving close to him. Her eyes search his face, partially obscured by black leather. She pulls herself nearer to him by his hand, until she can feel the heat of his body radiating through his clothes. He takes a deep breath as if drinking her in. He closes his eyes.

Against his eyelids, Rose can see the flicker of the candlelight. They stand in a cavern with thousands of lit candles, casting a soft glow on his underground lair. A grand organ stands to one side, and what seems like a workshop is on the other. Opulent curtains hide a side chamber.

When he opens his eyes, they stare straight at Rose. It is disconcerting to be gazed at behind a mask. She longs to reach up and reveal the other side of his face and run her hands down his cheeks. She moves up the hand not encased in his own, but he places it on his shoulder. His eyes warn her not to move it. He places his other hand on her waist and raises their threaded fingers.

“Who do you think I am, Rose?” He asks her, with genuine curiosity. He brings her to his chest, and sighs deeply at the contact when she allows herself to be drawn in. His hand moves to the small of her back, tentatively resting there as if he’s not sure he’ll be allowed.

“They call you the Phantom,” she whispers, trembling in his arms. Her heart is racing with adrenaline. He chuckles.

“Ah, leave it to mankind to make the worst out of a situation.” His tone is dry, but not unkind.

“You’re my angel of music, aren’t you?” He smiles down at her and they start to spin in a slow, lazy waltz to the music playing inside his head (if she could listen, it would be her voice she’d hear, singing the melody.)

“Yes, Rose. But _aside_ from your singing lessons, I also like to fix things. It’s what I do in my…spare time. I make them, I create them, I help them.”

“Like an inventor?” He seems to consider and tilts his head with a slight smile on his face.

“Maybe more like a Doctor.” She smiles at him, and he begins to sing in her ear, an entrancing melody that leaves her breathless. They sway on the spot, any pretense of real dancing forgotten.

She sighs in his arms, his clever words resonating throughout the cavern. Though he sings out loud, it is only for her. Her limbs grow weary and her head starts to swirl. With every syllable, she feels herself drawing into him. Her hand has slid upwards to cradle the back of his neck, not daring to touch the edge of his mask with her fingertips.

He draws out a particularly long note, and in a haze, she captures the last dulcet syllables with her lips. His lips are cool and pliant beneath hers. He does not deepen the kiss, though his grip on her lower back tightens a bit. She swallows his song, the last thrumming of his vocal chords lost in her throat.

When she pulls away, still fingering the hairs at the nape of his neck, his eyes are closed in reverence.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stutters weakly in a whisper. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She looks at his face, waiting for an answer. His eyes flutter open, and a grin slowly spreads across his face.

“Fantastic,” he murmurs, a hand coming up to caress her cheek. She leans into the touch. Rose isn’t sure if he’s talking about the kiss, or her, or just how they’re finally here together. But she feels like the inexperienced stuttering ingénue that the opera makes her out to be. But she thinks that in his eyes, maybe she’s a bit more than that. She wants more than anything to be the girl he sees through those blue eyes frames in thin dark lashes. “Can I show you something?” he asks. She nods, hesitantly, and he squeezes her hand before releasing it.

Her angel, the Doctor, moves around behind her. Sweeping her hair to one side, he places a kiss on her neck, where it meets her shoulder. Then he moves slightly to one side, and guides her by her waist to a point deeper within the cavern. His hand on her waist is solid and less tentative than before, emboldened by her kiss.

Upon his urging, she makes her way across the cavern to his workshop where he shows her paintings, figurines, musical scores, an a mannequin. _It’s a mannequin of Rose in a wedding dress._

She promptly faints, head dizzy and spinning.

Rose awakens in golden silk sheets, and there is a sheer dark curtain around the bed in which she lies. She quickly takes stock of her person, noting that all her clothes are indeed still on, and she has not been taken advantage of. Still, she assumes she is in his bed and blushes. How silly and unladylike of her to faint and make him take care of her. (She supposes his title of ‘Doctor’ may be fitting ever moreso now.)

She sits up slowly as to not agitate her head, even though she feels much better now. She can hear harsh tones of an organ followed by a softer melody. She has woken to the music of her angel. So, Rose draws back the shining curtain, and steps out of the bed onto the cool slate. She can see the Doctor playing the organ now and makes her way towards him. His back is turned to her and his head must be filled with music because he does not hear her approach. She expects he is not one who is easily snuck up upon.

When she touches his shoulders lightly, he softens the melody and leans into her hands just a touch. She traces the contours of his face from behind, and in a fit of madness and betrayal, she tears off his mask. Before he tries to hide his face she gets an eyeful of hideous warped skin, from scarring or a birth defect, she is not sure. He whirls around to face her and the force of his motions and the horror and outrage on his face makes her stumble back and fall on the cold rock.

“You stupid _ape_!” He shouts. “You damned humans, always prying in what you do not want to know. Are you happy?” From her vantage point he looks angry, but also so, so scared. His hand comes up to half cover his face but instead he turns from her, shoulders shaking.

“Doctor…” she starts and her voice is trembling, apologizing.

“Rose.” Her name is an echo of a song, a plea for grace falling from his lips. He whispers. “This is not me.” His voice is anguished. “I’m sorry, Rose. I never meant for you to see. But behind this face is so much more, Rose. So much more.” He takes a deep breath, and suddenly she finds herself standing, and placing a hand on his shoulder. He stills in front of her. “I’ll take you back now,” he says forcefully, the bitterness of his words stinging her.

“Is that what you want?” She asks quietly, and slides up behind him. She lays her head against his back, feels his heart pump out an erratic rhythm against her cheek. Her tears run from her cheek to the soft fabric of his shirt and her hands come up to his shoulders, clutching him lightly, as if she’s afraid he’ll shatter under her fingers. He twitches as if to turn into her, but stops.

Rose kisses between his shoulder blades, the gesture somewhat lost in the layers of fabric between them. But then she circles around him, and looks studiously at his chest while she fingers his lapels. But then her gaze steadily travels up to his face, searching out sad blue eyes. She looks at his face, and does not flinch. It makes him feel…alive. Alive and normal, and no one’s ever made him feel like that before. He gazes at her in wonder and she gives the Doctor a watery smile.

“And here I was, thinking I was going to tell you that the music is always better with two.” Her smile is tentative, as if she doesn’t quite believe he’ll take her at her word. He certainly looks incredulous.

“But, with me? Rose, you…” But he is silenced, as she cradles his face in her hands and hauls her lips to his. Where her hands caress ever so gently, her lips are solid and pressing against his, and he responds in kind. She deepens the kiss almost immediately and he welcomes her tongue in his mouth as she asks with her lips. It’s all he can do not to melt on the spot, under her careful lips and delicate hands.

She tastes like absolution and forgiveness and redemption. He supposes she is all those things, because the Doctor’s never really let himself be loved before, if that’s even what this is (he hopes so.)

When she breaks away, her hands stay on his face, thumbs making broad strokes on his cheeks. She gazes at him without horror or repulsion, and he feels something in his chest start to knit back together, like a second heart he never knew he had.

“So how long are you going to stay with me?” he asks her.

“Forever.”


End file.
